


Mission

by Elri (angelrider13)



Series: Naboo Queens [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Badass Women, Disabled Character, Gen, Muteness, Naboo Culture, Physical Disability, mute character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-17 13:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelrider13/pseuds/Elri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men go to battle. Women wage war.</p><p>Emperors may rule, but Queens?</p><p>Queens conquer.</p><p>-</p><p>“Let the worlds know that we grieve. Let them know that we have been broken and that we are stronger for it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, guys. So this part of the series is going to be multi chapter, but I'm going to be moving onto the next part next week and update this as we go. This part is basically what happened between ROTS and A New Hope.

Silver was the color of mourning on Naboo.

It was her color.

Lady Ÿfana, the Keeper of Souls. The Weeping Woman with silver tears and a gentle touch.

Silver was bright, easy to see, a beacon.

It was the color of the soul.

* * *

 

Danè pulled the needle through the fabric, silver bright thread gleaming against dark purple. Silver for Lady Ÿfana. For their reason. For their Queen.

Color held meaning for them.

Clothing was important.

Appearance was everything.

Padmè had been fourteen when she was elected. She was young and inexperienced – people would think her weak. Most of them had been the same age or younger. They would be viewed the same as their Queen. Little girls playing at ruling a planet. So they disguised themselves. Traditional makeup, elaborate clothes. People wanted to see a Queen, so they were given one.

Danè had been young then, younger than Padmè. She thought the older girl a Queen without all the finery.

She held up her work, looking it over with a critical eye. There could be no mistakes. This was important. Their battle dress for their first mission.

A deep, rich purple tunic with long, billowing sleeves, silver embroidery swirling at the edges. A silver belt at the waist, the rest of the tunic tapering down the back past the knees, leaving the front open. Underneath, a purple bodysuit completed the look. The tunic’s fabric was thick and padded and the bodysuit itself was armored. It was designed for easy movement, for concealment. The less skin showing the better. The bodysuit had a hood to hide their hair. Eirtaè was the only blond one among them and they needed to hide such distinctions.

They were one body, one mind, one identity.

Physical differences didn’t matter.

They were one.

* * *

 

“Danè, it’s beautiful,” Sachè breathed, holding up her sleeves to look at the embroidery.

Danè gave her a pleased smile while she helped Fè tuck her hair into the bodysuit’s hood, smoothing down the fabric so that it lay flat.

“Purple for remembrance,” Rabè murmured, “Silver for mourning. Well done, Danè.”

“Yanè helped. She made the headscarves,” Danè said as she pinned the afore mentioned garment in place on Fè.

Yanè huffed, not even looking up from where she was painting Sachè’s face white. “You still made our battle dress for this mission. For _all_ of us. Even those of us that aren’t going to run this mission. Stop being so modest.”

Danè, in her infinite maturity, stuck out her tongue in response.

Sabè’s lips quirked up ever so slightly in a way that meant she would be beaming were she not in makeup. She tended to slip into the role of Queen Amidala at an unconscious level as soon as it was applied. Next to her, Rabè rolled her eyes at them even as she reached for the red paint.

“No,” Sabè said, reaching out to stop her, “Not red. Paint me with Ÿfana’s Tears.”

Rabè blinked before nodding slowly, fingers passing over red and reaching for silver instead. She applied the makeup quickly and easily – the Scar of Remembrance on Sabè’s lips, Ÿfana’s Tears on her cheeks. She stepped back as she finished.

Sabè’s eyes slid open and Danè sucked in a sharp breath.

It was the first time in ages that any of them had donned the traditional makeup. Her heart was pounding in her chest, stomach bubbling with anticipation and nerves in equal parts.

Queen Amidala sat before them.

“ _Force_ ,” Yanè whispered breathlessly, “You still look exactly like her.”

Sabè gave them a sad smile, eyes gleaming. “Don’t make me cry, Yanè. Rabè already painted my tears.”

Yanè ducked her head, pressing her fingers to her eyes. Sachè reached over and rubbed soothing circles into the younger woman’s back.

“We’ve already cried so much,” Sachè said softly, “So much so that it feels like we’ll never stop.”

“Sometimes crying is the only way to explain how broken your heart is,” Fè murmured.

“We lost our sister, our Queen,” Sabè said, “Of course we weep.”

“Then perhaps we should all show our tears,” Danè said, “This is our first appearance – let the worlds know that we grieve. Let them know that we have been broken and that we are stronger for it.”

They smiled, fierce and sad all at the same time.

Sabè stood, taking the silver paint from Rabè as she passed. With steady hands and long practiced movements, their Queen’s double painted Danè’s face with silver tears.

“Some women are lost in fire,” she said, her voice the deep tones of Queen Amidala, “We were forged in it.”

Danè smiled. “And we shine that much brighter because of it.”

* * *

 

Silver was the color of mourning on Naboo.

It was the color of tears.

But tears made them braver. Pain made them stronger. Heartbreak made them wiser.

They were not broken.

They were silver.


	2. Voice

Yané was furious with herself.

She should have been paying more attention. Should have been faster. Should have, would have, could have.

Now she was staring as Saché’s equally furious and terrified face as a blade is pressed against the delicate flesh of her throat.

She’d been caught. She’d made a stupid mistake and now she was paying for it. Her only saving grace was that the man holding her life in his hands was a bounty hunter and not a stormtrooper. Bounty hunters were more…negotiable than Stormtroopers. Not that it gave her much, but it was still something.

“Let her go,” Saché said, voice the velvety rich tones of Naboo royalty.

“Hmmm, I think not,” the bounty hunter purred from behind her, “The Empire pays quite well, you see. And you pretty queens have been stirring up so much trouble lately.”

Saché lifted an eyebrow, looking entirely unruffled and perhaps a bit unimpressed. “You flatter,” she said, “But what makes you think I will let you take her?”

Yané could hear the smirk in his voice as he answered, “You think you can stop me, little lady?”

She met Saché’s eyes and twisted her wrist ever so slightly. Cool metal slid against her palm, the knife she’d kept hidden in her sleeve coming loose, her fingers curling around the ring at the dagger’s end. She saw the acknowledgement in Saché’s expression where others would miss it, covered by makeup and a blank expression.

Yané waited a beat and then shoved the dagger into the bounty hunter’s thigh. The man screeched, but she was already moving, throwing her body back into his. She felt his blade bite into her flesh as she fell, but she was free of his hold. Her hand came up on instinct and clutched at her throat. She tasted copper on her tongue and she felt warmth flowing down her throat, soaking her.

Somewhere above her, she heard two blaster shots in quick succession and then silence.

Saché’s face appeared in her graying vision and Yané could tell she had gone pale under white makeup. Her lips were moving, she was clearly saying something, but Yané couldn’t hear her. She felt Saché’s arms around her, lifting her as the world closed in around her and everything went dark.

* * *

 

When Yané woke, she found herself lying in a bed, covers pulled up to her chin, with the oddest sensation that she had a ball of yarn lodged in her throat. She blinked up at the ceiling in confusion, puzzling the strange sensation when a soft sigh drew her attention.

Tilting her head, she saw Rabé sitting by her bed, frowning at the datapad she held.

She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a rusty croak. Rabé startled and looked up at her, eyes wide and Yané felt the burning prickle of tears in her own. Speaking was not a good idea.

“Easy, Yané,” Rabé said, helping prop her up and then holding a glass of water to her lips. “Slowly now, your throat is still pretty raw.”

Right. Her throat. The bounty hunter. The knife.

She reached up, carefully feeling the bandages wrapped around her neck. She looked at Rabé in askance.

The other woman sighed. “You lost a lot of blood, so you’ll be weak for a little while, the wound was pretty deep. It’s been healed for the most part, but…” Rabé trailed off, pressing her lips into a thin line.

Yané’s brow furrowed and she tugged on Rabé’s arm.

“The blade was poisoned,” she admitted after a moment, “The healers did their best, Yané, but they don’t think you’ll ever be able to talk again.”

Yané stared at her.

Her voice.

Her voice was gone.

Her voice was gone and it wasn’t coming back.

“I’m sorry, Yané,” Rabé murmured, sliding up onto the bed and wrapping her arms around her.

Yané blinked and realized she was crying. Her throat felt thick and heavy and swollen. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Rabé said, rubbing a firm, gentle hand down her back, “You’re okay, you hear me? You’re okay and we’ll figure this out.”

But she couldn’t speak and more.

She couldn’t sing.

Oh Force, she couldn’t sing any more.

She loved singing.

Padmé loved her singing.

Saché –

Saché.

Yané jolted, snatching one of Rabé’s hands and tracing letters into her palm.

Rabé blinked rapidly at the sudden movement, brow furrowing as she realized what Yané was doing. “Saché?”

Yané nodded.

“She’s perfectly fine,” Rabé said soothingly, smoothing a hand over Yané’s dark hair, “She’s upset, of course. We all are. But she feels that she should have done something more.”

Yané shook her head, perhaps a little too wildly, stopping with a wince with the movement pulled at her throat.

Rabé gave her a sad smile. “I know it’s not her fault,” she said, “She does to. But that’s not going to stop her from feeling like she should have been able to stop it.”

Yané frowned and pointed at herself. It was her fault. Her mistake. She got caught when she shouldn’t have. She cut herself on the poisoned blade escaping. Her fault.

“You know that’s not how it works,” Rabé said, a slight smile tugging at her lips, “Things happen. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

Yané glared at her and very pointedly crossed her arms over her chest.

Rabé just smirked. “I’ll just go tell the girls you’re up, shall I?”

Yané threw a pillow at the other woman as she fled the room laughing.

* * *

 

_It’s not your fault._

Yané watched Saché read the words. Watched the emotions that played across her face, the way her lips pressed into a line, the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The way she turned her face, refusing to look her in the eye.

She frowned, pushing lightly at Saché’s shoulder and holding the note out to her again. Stubborn. Insistent.

Saché blew out a frustrated breath. “I just stood there,” she hissed, glaring at the ground, “I just stood there and _watched –_ ”

That’s it.

Yané reached over and punched her in the arm. Hard.

Saché yelped and turned to glare at her – finally, _finally_ , looking at her. Yané took hold of her chin with one hand and shoved the plast in Saché’s face with the other. She stood like that for a long moment until she heard Saché sigh.

“Alright,” she said, gently pushing Yané’s hands away, “Alright, not my fault.”

Yané nodded firmly and reached up to pat her cheek patronizingly.

Saché rolled her eyes. “You know, you don’t really need your voice to be such a demanding little brat. That’s just all you.”

Yané just beamed at her.


	3. Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Somariel.

Jobal Naberrie was, first and foremost, a mother.

She and her husband had been gifted with two beautiful girls to raise as their own.

She was a mother.

More specifically, she was the mother of a Queen.

Her little girl turned fourteen and suddenly she was the leader of an entire planet.

As a result, Jobal was intimately familiar with what it meant to be Queen. She had also been around enough Nubian Royalty to pick up the subtle differences underneath the elaborate headdresses, fancy clothes, and traditional makeup.  Queens Amidala, Jamillia, Neeyutnee, Apailana and so on all looked different if you knew what to look for. Not only that, but as much as they tried, the handmaidens that often served as their decoys could never entirely match their Queens, though some came closer than others.

Still, Jobal was a mother.

More specifically, she was the mother of a Queen.

And she watched her Queen-Daughter grow from infancy to adulthood. She’d known her Queen-Daughter from the moment she’d held her tiny body against her breast for the first time. Known her body, heart, and soul.

And right now, Jobal felt like she was looking at a ghost.

It was a news report about a group of rebels. Rebels that were all young women with white faces, red beauty marks on their cheeks and the Scar of Remembrance on their lips. The clip showed several women, blasters in hand, in the process of destroying a military supply outpost. They were all dressed identically, but there was one woman the others all seemed to defer to.

And when Jobal first caught a glimpse of her, she felt the breath knocked from her lungs.

Because for the briefest of moments, she thought she was looking into the face of her Queen-Daughter again – regal and fierce and _alive._

But Jobal was a mother.

And a mother knows her daughter anywhere.

She was a Queen’s mother and she had been around enough Nubian Royalty to be able to pick up on the differences between them.

As much as she wished it, as much as her heart _ached_ for it to be so, she knew that was not her Queen-Daughter’s face.

But she still knew that face. Oh she knew it.

Because for all that her little girl was gone, Queen Amidala was standing on that screen, clear as day, challenging the injustice the galaxy seemed content to let fester.

“Ruwee,” she called, voice cracking.

She suddenly realized she was trembling, eyes burning as tears threatened to fall.

“Ruwee,” she called again, louder, clearer, “Sola!”

She wasn’t sure what her voice sounded like, but it must have conveyed her turmoil because her daughter flew into the room, worry shining in her eyes.

“Mother?” she asked, coming to stand next to her, hand reaching out to take her elbow, “Mother, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

She couldn’t answer, just gestured towards the holo. Sola turned and sucked in a sharp breath.  Before her daughter could comment, her husband strode into the room, the same questions on his lips.

But he froze, eyes landing on the holo. Jobal saw the same thought process cross his face. The surprise, the grief, it was all there. He sat down on the couch with a heavy thump, eyes locked onto the image before them.

“Padmé,” Sola whispered at last, breaking the silence that seemed to echo around them.

“No,” Ruwee said, shaking his head, “But also yes.”

“Queen Amidala,” Jobal said and her husband nodded in agreement.

Sola looked between them and she could see the confusion and grief and fear in her daughter’s face.

“Padmé died years ago, Sola.” And oh, how it hurt to say that. It was something that she had known for well over a decade now, but the thought of it still sent a dagger through her heart. She knew that it always would. Her baby. Her little girl. Gone. “Queen Amidala is someone else entirely.”

Sola’s brow furrowed. “But…” she trailed off, unable to voice her thoughts.

Jobal could tell she didn’t understand, not really. To her, Queen Amidala and Padmé had always been the same person. Ruwee understood; she could see it in his eyes. He’d been around their little girl and her handmaidens just as much as she. He knew where the line between their daughter and the Queen was.

“Do you think,” Sola paused, lips twisted in thought, “Do you think she would, well, protest? She always hated violence, but…”

Ruwee hummed. “She never was one to take things lying down was she? No, I dare say she would approve. Not many people are brave enough to stand up these days.”

“No,” Sola agreed, eyes turning back to the holo, “No, they’re not.”

Jobal was a mother.

More specifically, she was the mother of a Queen.

And she knew her Queen-Daughter better than anyone.

Queens were water. They were calm and serene and patient. They were quiet and peaceful and soothing. But most importantly they were fierce and loyal and strong. Most importantly they knew that they could not be touched. That they could not be stopped.

Queens were water.

And water always found a way.

Her daughter always found a way.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen the girls, don’t you think, dear?” she asked her husband.

Ruwee tilted his head, a glint in his eyes that she’d seen so many times in their daughter springing to life. “Yes, I do believe it has been.”

Jobal turned back to the holo, eyes holding Queen Amidala’s. “We should fix that.”

She was a mother.

But most importantly, she was the mother of a Queen.


	4. Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For AngelQueen, Connwaer49, Aki no Kitsune, and Brievel

It was impossible.

He knew it was.

He had seen Her body himself, had been to Her tomb.

And yet.

Vader stared at the holo, completely fixated on the women in the image, his breathing echoing loudly in the silent room.

He remembered that day.

The day he burned.

It was the day She had looked at him so desperately, eyes wet with tears. The day She had backed away from him with fear on Her face, with betrayal and heartbreak and desperation in every line of Her body. The day that She pleaded with him, begged him to stay with Her, to love Her, to let Her love him in return, to be a father to their child, to leave with Her.

The day he killed Her.

He remembered that day.

Remembered the anger and the hatred and the betrayal he felt when Obi-Wan had stepped out of Her ship. Remembered the way he had reached out and _squeezed_. Remembered the way Her hands flew to Her throat and the surprise in Her eyes and Her gasped pleas. Remembered the way She fell bonelessly to the ground, sprawled out on the durasteel landing platform, breathing shallow and reedy.

He loved Her.

He would always love Her.

And he killed Her.

Not in labor like his visions had shown him, for he had seen Her body still swollen with child, but by his hand. Two lives extinguished in a moment of blind rage, lives that he had always sworn were more precious to him than anything and he’d snuffed them out like they were nothing.

And now he stared at the ghosts projected before him and tried to pretend that his heart wasn’t clenching in his chest, that his stomach wasn’t sinking, that a chill wasn’t lacing up his spine, that his regulator wasn’t working overtime to keep his breathing steady.

She was dead.

She was dead because he killed Her.

She was dead because he killed Her and now Her ghosts were haunting him.

She was dead because he killed Her and now Her ghosts were haunting him and burning the Empire he had worked to build to keep Her safe to the ground.

He’d done it for Her.

He’d taken their war torn galaxy and reshaped it into something that would protect Her.

Yet when he’d tried to tell Her of it, to make Her see how glorious and wonderful it was, She had backed away from him. She’d shaken Her head and looked at him like She’d never seen him before. She’d looked at what he’d done – out of love for Her, to protect Her, to _save Her_ – and said no.

She’d said no.

He hadn’t listened.

And now the Empire he had built for Her was burning.

Oh they were small fires, easily put out and seemingly insignificant considering the grander scale, but he knew – for She had taught him oh so long ago – that even the smallest of sparks could grow into a raging inferno.

Why couldn’t She understand?

Why couldn’t She see what he had built for Her?

Why did She haunt him like this?

How could She not see how much he loved Her? How much he still loved Her even after all this time?

And yet.

He’d always been fire. Fire and passion and a burning tangle of emotion that refused to be extinguished.

She’d always been water. Rare and precious and necessary for life. She was willful and spirited and spoke Her mind. She was freedom personified.

She hadn’t feared fire.

She’d never feared fire.

She’d never been afraid to burn.

And as he watched Her ghosts move with all the grace and ferocity of a storm, he wondered if She even could.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt me!
> 
> The chapters for this part are most likely not going to be that long (drabbles or one shots), but this part is meant to cover the time period between ROTS and A New Hope. I already have some ideas, but it's 19 years to cover - if you have an idea I'd love to hear it! 
> 
> Now I won't promise to fill every prompt (and if that is the case I will tell you ASAP) because sometimes the muses just don't wanna work with a prompt, but if you have a thought, let me know.
> 
> There are some conditions: it has to be in the specified time frame. If you want something BEFORE ROTS, I'll consider it if you can pitch it to me as a good flashback. If you want something AFTER A New Hope - no. I have enough plot bunnies for after. Don't you dare give me more. I might cry.
> 
> That being said, go nuts. You can ask for shenanigans, mission angst, aftermath. You can ask for more little Leia. You can ask for people's reactions to the appearance of their rebel cell. You can ask for more Bail and Breha. You can ask for Naboo Court or Imperial Senate events/spy stuff. Ask away!
> 
> You can prompt in a review or send me an ask on my [tumblr](http://angelrider13.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> These prompts will most likely be posted in bulk - as in more than one chapter on Sundays.
> 
> As always, the story tag on my tumblr can be found [here](http://angelrider13.tumblr.com/tagged/naboo-queens).


End file.
